


Don't Let Me Disappear

by VivaRocksteady



Series: Animal Predation [1]
Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Catcher in the Rye spoilers, Death of an OC, Killing Eve - AU, Killing Eve spoilers sooort of, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, and bill's a little obsessed with holden, assassin holden, holden is obsessed with bill, psychopath holden, serial killer holden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 09:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16323347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivaRocksteady/pseuds/VivaRocksteady
Summary: “You dressed up for me,” a very soft voice said.Bill’s head shot up. Holden fucking Ford was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, with his stupid good boy haircut, a short-sleeved baby blue button down shirt tucked into his dumb trousers. He looked like he had stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting.Holden’s smile faded. “Please don’t run,” he said.--A Killing Eve AU.





	Don't Let Me Disappear

**Author's Note:**

> I did not intend to take the fantastically female Killing Eve and rewrite some scenes with men, and I feel a bit weird about it. But the dinner scene in particular got me HOT and I could not stop thinking about it with Holden and Bill, so here we are, I am trash, hope you like it!
> 
> This is my first Mindhunter fic as well, and hello, I will probably only write silly AUs.

Bill should have known he was fucked the moment he saw that smug little psychopath.

Wendy might say that was an unfair stance to take— he didn’t know that smug little psychopath was _that_ smug little psychopath at the time.

But Bill had felt something, a little twinge in his guts and his chest, and as a seasoned agent, he should have known something was wrong.

The problem was that Bill had felt other little twinges over the years that didn’t help him as an agent, or a man, or a husband, and he had learned to suppress those. And in this case, the two types of twinges were happening at the same time. 

The witness was as protected as the Bureau would allow her to be. Two armed guards, secure wing, all hospital staff vetted and screened. Bill should not have put blind trust in the hospital’s security, however, and he should have especially not have put blind trust in a pretty face, male or otherwise. But it _was_ male, so he had that twinge, and he couldn’t tell which twinge it was, and he suppressed it, and here he was, with his life falling apart around him.

The witness was gaining her wits, he’d been told, and he’d seen her lolling back to consciousness in her hospital bed. The nurse asked him to wait an hour before questioning her, so he’d gone out for a smoke, and on his way back in he went to use the can.

A _very_ young doctor was in front of the sink, fiddling with his tie. His lab coat was slightly too big, and that along with his Boy Scout haircut and his inability to tie a tie made him look like a kid playing dress up in his dad’s clothes.

The young doctor looked up as Bill came into the john. He looked startled and embarrassed. 

“Need help?” Bill asked. Something about becoming a father had made it impossible to stand by and watch a younger man embarrass himself like this.

The kid blinked. “Um… yes, please.” His hands dropped away from his tangle of a tie. “I didn’t do it properly this morning, and I never could get the hang of it.”

“Here.” Bill stepped forward and undid the tangle. Within seconds, he’d tied a neat knot around the young doctor’s throat. 

The kid was staring at him with a kind of reverential, beatific focus that made Bill uncomfortable. He may have even _blushed_ , but Bill talked about this to the sketch artist for so long that he forgot what was memory and what was ~~fantasy~~ imagination.

Bill stepped back and coughed awkwardly.

The young doctor kept staring at him with those huge, wet eyes, touching the knot with his fingers gingerly. “Thank you,” he said, a hint of surprise in his voice, like nobody had ever done him a favour before.

Bill shrugged and went into the stall. He only had to take a piss, but he wasn’t going to do it with that kid out there staring at him like a goddamn knight in shining armour.

When he came out of the stall, the kid was gone.

When he went back to the witness, the armed guards and the nurse had all been stabbed to death. The guards’ firearms were lying on the floor, unfired. A doctor’s white lab coat was also on the floor, drenched in blood, and they would later learn the name tag belonged to a doctor who was on vacation. 

The witness had been strangled to death with a ligature.

Like, for instance, a men’s tie.

—

“I don’t understand,” said Greg. “He had a knife. Why go through the trouble of strangling her?”

“If he was disguised as a doctor or an orderly, he didn’t have to do any of it,” Bill said. “He could have just poisoned her. Made it look like an allergic reaction or something.”

“He’s getting bored,” said Wendy with her usual air of authoritative finality. “Or he’s showing off.”

“Do you think he knows we’re on to him?” asked Greg.

“Are we on to him?” Wendy countered. “We still have no idea who he is.”

They had started this particular little thought exercise several months ago, when Bill was asked to consult by some local cops on his travels. A semi-prominent local businessman had been found stabbed to death in a park. On paper, it was unremarkable, except for the stunning brutality of the murder— this was no opportunistic theft— and the relative importance of the victim.

There were no leads, but when Bill learned about similar unsolved stabbings in cities all over the country, some dating back years, his little team started piecing all the data together as part of their larger study.

The victims were all adult men. They were all involved in business or politics at various levels, and while some had rumours of corruption, they were unproven— at least until the bodies were discovered. 

They were all stabbed to death with a knife of similar size, in a similar pattern across the body. A few were castrated, the body part discarded in the trash. 

All of them, and this was the weird part, had their faces cleaned of blood after death. 

When Shepard came to him with an agent from the FBI’s Intelligence Branch to get his help on a new case, Bill instantly saw that it was connected. A Senator had been stabbed to death in a hotel room. His face had been wiped clean. 

Shepard wouldn’t hear any of it. “This was a respected Senator. Intelligence thinks it was a hit job, not one of your perverts and deviants. You need to stop seeing patterns where there are none. I just need you to make sure the witness is safe, and ask her a few questions.”

“Why me, if it’s not related to my work?”

“Because we’re busy, Bill,” Shepard looked at him like he was stupid. “Your little hobby can wait. Get to it.”

To say Shepard had been livid when the witness died was a understatement. For a moment, Bill thought he was going to be fired. He was grateful to just be once more relegated to the basement with his perverts and deviants.

“Serves me right for getting you involved with something interesting,” Shepard grumbled. 

Bill was nothing if not a good soldier, and he did as he was told. But Wendy— who would have made a terrible soldier and had probably never done as she was told in her entire life— had really latched onto the idea that the Senator was related to their current side project.

“He was stabbed in the same general pattern. The MO is consistent. You’ve said it yourself, it could have been the same knife every time. That fits in the murders in the hospital. The only thing that’s different is wiping their faces clean, and he didn’t have time in the hospital.”

Bill shook his head. “The Senator was found naked in bed. That’s a honey trap if I ever saw one.”

Wendy narrowed her eyes. “When these began, you were very adamant that it could _not_ be a woman.”

“And you were adamant that they could be,” he countered. “You’ve opened my eyes, professor.”

“Well how’s this for an eye opener. The maid was the only witness, and she never got to say what she saw.” She had been pushed down a flight of stairs and cracked her head, and the going theory was that she had startled the assassin on the way out and been shoved. “We have no proof that a woman was ever in that room. A honey trap could have just as easily been a man.”

Greg was hunched over his desk, looking as uncomfortable as Bill felt.

“Hmm,” said Bill, which was a long enough hesitation for Wendy to dig deeper. 

“Our victims are all well-connected men. Just because only some of them were proven to be corrupt doesn’t mean the rest _aren’t_. I can think of a million ways they could be linked to a dirty Senator.”

Bill sighed. “So all this time, we’ve been tracking some Soviet operative and _not_ one of our standard thrill killers?”

Wendy tilted her head. “This is a new science, Bill. There’s no reason it couldn’t be both." 

Greg looked confused, but then he always did. “Why would the FBI be investigating that?”

“They must think it’s domestic,” said Bill. “Greg, I want all the ID of the male hospital staff, whether they were on duty or not. We didn’t interview all of them. Maybe that kid I ran into saw something.”

—

Wendy kept Bill company as he went through the reams of identifications and photographs of all the male hospital staff. He went through the pile again and again, his heart sinking as he realized the boy with the tie wasn’t there. He got agitated, cursing at that son of a bitch Greg to _make sure this is everybody!_

“Bill,” Wendy put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“I saw him,” Bill spat, but he didn’t shrug her hand away. “Jesus Christ. I fixed his tie for him! Four people are dead because of me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Wendy, but Bill wasn’t hearing reason until he could have a cigarette. 

They called down a sketch artist, and Bill had to grunt through a few variations of “white male, brown hair, green eyes,” until he could relax enough to be of any use.

“He was young. Twenties, I guess, but I remember thinking he was too young to be a doctor. He had a haircut like an Boy Scout. Or a Mormon. Stood up real straight. Clear skin. Clean shaven. Full lips. Big eyes. Huge eyes, frightened, even. They were green. Or blue. Somewhere between. They were very… focused. Intensely focused.”

The sketch artist said nothing, staring down at his paper. Bill took a drag of his cigarette and glanced over at Wendy. She raised an eyebrow at him.

—

Nobody was as surprised as Bill when Shepard turned up at the BSU’s basement office unannounced, the stone-faced Intelligence Branch agent in tow.

“You’re back on the case, Bill.”

“Okay. Why?”

“There’s been another assassination,” said the the Intelligence agent. “An Air Force colonel in New York. Same MO.”

“Okay,” Bill said again. “So why do you need me? Is there a witness?”

Shepard and the agent gave each other uncomfortable looks.

“The hotel arranged an escort for him,” Shepard said. “They use a particular agency that meets… particular tastes. They’re discreet, but local police were able to get the escort’s name.”

“Great,” said Bill.

Shepard looked like he had eaten something that had expired. “The escort used a fake name,” he said.

“Well, I would imagine so,” said Bill. 

“It was a male escort,” the Intelligence agent spit out. “He called himself Billy Tench.”

—

“How the hell does this little bastard know my name,” Bill mumbled for the millionth time. He was slumped against the window on the airplane, cigarette never leaving his mouth. 

Wendy was drinking a glass of wine and reading a psychology journal. “It’s certainly troubling,” she agreed. “I was under the impression that few people even knew about our research.”

“Maybe there’s a mole,” Bill scowled. 

“Could he have seen your badge?” Wendy asked. “Maybe when you were doing his tie, he picked your pocket?”

Bill was quiet. He thought the boy was staring at him with those doe eyes the entire fifteen odd seconds, but maybe that was part of the act. “I suppose it’s possible,” he finally said.

“Maybe using that name was just a coincidence,” Wendy offered.

Bill sighed. “God, I hope so,” he said, by which he meant _of course it fucking isn’t_.

—

They took a cab to their hotel, and were greeted by Detective Dylan Alpin, a young cop Bill had meet a few times before on road school. 

They gathered their bags on the sidewalk and Bill introduced Dylan and Wendy. Dylan grinned at him sidelong.

“Come on, man, no need to be shy! This is New York! Give me a hug.”

Bill sighed, but let the younger man hug him. Dylan was a good detective, and Bill had seen him grow a lot in the last few years. Becoming a father had made him so soft towards younger officers. 

“Let’s get you settled, and then hit the pavement,” said Dylan.

“Where’s my bag?” Bill asked.

Wendy gasped and clutched her purse closer. Her suitcase was still in hand. But Bill’s was gone. They looked around the street, but couldn’t see anybody running off with it. 

“Oh, no,” Wendy said. 

“Nancy’s going to have kittens,” Bill snarled. 

“Shit, Bill, I’m sorry,” said Dylan. “I should’ve—”

“No, no,” Bill gruffly took Wendy’s suitcase, and she clutched his arm, and they stepped towards their hotel, both feeling middle-aged and pathetic in the _big, bad city_.

—

They learned almost nothing in New York. Dylan brought Bill to inspect the scene where the colonel had died, and interview some hotel workers. Dylan had also found the madam of the escort agency, despite everyone’s best effort to keep it discreet.

She was reticent herself, and reiterated that all their workers used fake names. She’d have no idea how to track down Billy Tench, even if she wanted to.

“Is this him?” Dylan showed her the sketch of the young doctor. Her face softened.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s him.”

“Where is he now?” 

The woman shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since that night. He only worked here for a week. We have a high turnover.”

Dylan gave Bill an apologetic look.

“You’ll tell me if you find him, right?” the woman asked. “He wasn’t here long, but I hate to think of a sweet kid like him mixed up in something like this.”

—

Bill was still scowling when Wendy helped him buy a new suit. They were meeting some local FBI Intelligence Branch agents for dinner to talk about the case.

“I could just tell them my bag was stolen. I don’t see why they’d care.” 

“You’ve been wearing that suit for two days, Bill. Don’t be unreasonable. Here.” She showed him a jacket that was clean and sharp and felt great under his hands.

He balked at the price tag. “No, no way. Bring me whatever’s cheapest,” he told the sales clerk. 

“Bill, I feel bad,” said Wendy. “Let me get this for you--”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bill said. It felt like somebody was watching him, besides Wendy and the sales clerk. But when he glanced around the shop, nobody was looking.

—

They got slightly tipsy at dinner, and Wendy invited him into her room for a night cap. They had known each other long enough that a friendly drink together was only ever a friendly drink.

“I wish you had let me get you that suit,” Wendy said as Bill kicked off his shoes. “But I’m glad you got this one. It looks very good on you.”

“Oh?” He unbuttoned his jacket from around what Nancy called his spare tire, and waggled his brows at Wendy. “Are you admitting an attraction to me, professor?”

Wendy smiled wryly at him over her wine glass. “I respect you as a colleague,” she said, which meant _no, of course not._ “Have you ever been attracted to me?” she asked, continuing their game.

“I’m very happily married,” he replied, which meant _yes, of course._ He eased himself down to the floor, trying not to spill his beer. “What’s it like being with a woman?” 

“Have you never tried it?” Wendy replied.

He huffed a little laugh. “I mean… you don’t hide it.”

“I suppose not.”

“What’s that like?” 

Wendy was quiet a moment. “Hiding it is harder than not hiding it,” she said. 

Bill grunted a sympathetic response.

“What about you? Have you ever been attracted to a man?”

“No,” Bill said, very fast.

“Not even young men with big, frightened eyes and intense focus?”

“Shut up.” Bill lit a cigarette.

Wendy laughed, and let him smoke in peace. “Seriously, though,” she said after a moment. “You’ve never been attracted to a man? Not even once?”

Bill let smoke out of his mouth. “I’m very happily married,” he said.

—

Bill left Wendy’s around midnight that night. The telephone in his room was ringing.

“Bill!” It was Dylan, somewhere outside and loud. “I’ve been calling you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I was next door,” Bill said, uneasy feeling of something awful curling in his gut. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, good. I was going to try Wendy next,” Dylan said breathily. “I think I saw him. Billy. He was skulking around outside your hotel when you were out at dinner. I asked him for a light and I think that scared him off. I followed him on foot, we’re in the East Village. He went into a music club called CBGB. I had to find a phonebooth, but I’m going in now.” 

“Dylan, wait for me. I’ll be right there!”

“He’s been in there half an hour, Bill. He might have gone out the back. I’ll get him for you!”

“Wait!” Bill cursed when the line went dead. God save him from overzealous young detectives. He barely had time to light another cigarette as he hailed a cab and gave the name of the club. The driver looked askance, but Bill’s tight-lipped glare shut him up.

The bouncer didn’t want to let Bill in, which was no surprise, but he finally relented when he showed his badge. The club was small and dirty and dingy, and full of very young people who looked needlessly angry. 

There was band of musicians who looked like they hadn’t bathed in days, screaming about who knows what. As Bill pushed through the sweaty, writhing crowd, he couldn’t imagine that fresh-faced young doctor hanging out in a place like this.

He thought he saw the back of a Boy Scout haircut disappear out a door at the very end of the room. Then the back of what he was pretty sure was Dylan, rushing out the door after him. 

“Dylan!” He shouted, and put more weight into shoving drunk teenagers out of his way.

It still took him a long time to get through the throng. Too long. By the time Bill got outside, Dylan was lying in a crumpled heap, and nobody else was around.

“Shit, Dylan!” Bill crowded by the young detective, and tried to stop the bleeding. He ran back and yanked open the door, yelling for help, but nobody inside could hear him.

Dylan sputtered, and blood came out of his mouth, frothy with oxygen. He looked terrified, a look Bill had first seen in Korea. Bill tried to whisper soothingly as he started dragging Dylan out of the alley, towards the street, where he could shout for help again.

There was a loose tie around Dylan’s neck, and a stark red line across his throat. It was too dark to see, but the tie looked familiar. He must’ve realized there was no time, and stabbed the poor detective instead.

“Fuck. I’m so sorry,” Bill said, his face wet, cradling Dylan’s head on his lap. He wondered if this would be happening if he hadn’t hugged Dylan in broad daylight. 

Dylan tried to say something before he died, and Bill couldn’t tell if it was _Bill_ or _Billy_.

—

Another person dead because of him. He was quiet on the flight home, and Wendy didn’t try to make him talk. He wanted a security detail for her, and his family, for anybody he’d ever shown affection towards. But he remembered the dead guards in the hospital, and thought there was probably no point.

Shepard and Wendy both thought it was pretty clear this kid wanted Bill to come find him. Shepard warned Bill against being too paranoid. Bill still thought there must be a mole in the FBI. He kept that to himself, and quietly asked Greg to gather all the criminal records that could possibly fit their profile and sketch. 

He didn’t tell Nancy everything, of course. He barely told her anything at all. She noticed he was sullen, and tense, and they had one of their usual fights.

He’d kept waiting for her to accuse him of having an affair, especially since he started his little side project with Wendy. But he should have known Nancy was more astute than that.

“I’m terrified you’re going to get _killed_ , and they won’t tell me _why_!” she sobbed. “I need you, Bill. Brian needs his father. Why can’t you just go back to teaching? Even road school was better than this. Why does it have to be _you?_ ”

She sniffled a bit while he sat, tense, with nothing to say for himself. 

“I’m going to take a bath,” she said, miserably. On her way out: “They returned your suitcase. It’s in your office.”

_They?_ Bill raised a brow. He hadn’t even bothered filing an official police report about it. Did the thieves just mail it back?

It looked like his suitcase. But when he opened it, nothing was his.

There were extremely expensive clothes in there, none of his tattered old undershirts. Bill checked the baggage tag— definitely his name and address, definitely Nancy’s deliberate writing. 

He cautiously rummaged through the clothes. There was a novel in there, too, uncreased and unread. _The Catcher in the Rye_. Bill gingerly thumbed through it. Nothing was dog-eared or underlined.

Near the front, however, an inscription.

_I’m sorry about your friend.  
Xo_

Bill dropped the book like he’d been burned.

—

Forensics went through the suitcase and found no poison or secret traps— and also no evidence to find whoever tampered with it. Bill sat in Wendy’s office with his head in his hands, cigarette burning down to his fingers.

“It’s not ideal that he knows where you live,” Wendy said.

“I’m going to have to put Nancy and Brian in a safe house,” Bill mumbled. “Why the book? It doesn’t seem to link to anything.” 

“Have you never read it?” Wendy asked.

Bill scoffed. “No. I’ve heard it was communist propaganda.”

Wendy snorted a distinguished little snort. “Everything is communist propaganda to the right kind of person. No. Some people actually consider it a war novel. It’s all about loss of innocence.”

Bill looked up at her, resting his cheek in one hand, tired and cynical.

“You should read it,” said Wendy. “Maybe there are clues. Although… I don’t think you’d like it.” 

Bill leaned back and took a long drag from his cigarette. “Summarize it for me.”

Wendy rolled her eyes. “It’s about a teenaged boy named Holden Caulfield. His brother died when he was young, and he was never allowed to grieve properly, so when he’s older he has a bit of a mental breakdown.” She looked thoughtful a moment. “Though I think one could make an argument that he’s suffering from a manic episode. But he’s a flawed narrator, and there isn’t enough information to form a proper diagnosis.”

Bill scowled. “How does any of that help us?”

“Well, art is subjective. It would be interesting to know what a psychopath like our stabber would read into it. It has a lot of themes about finding yourself, your identity, figuring out how you fit, or don’t fit, into society. A lot of young people relate to Holden.”

“That’s what we’ll call this little bastard. Holden.” Bill shook his head. “Probably thinks he’s the victim in all this.” 

“Holden?” Greg had appeared in the doorway, holding a stack of files. “Do— do you already know?”

“Know what?” Bill’s patience for Greg was wearing thin these days.

Greg shifted the files nervously. “I got those prisoner records you wanted, and narrowed them down to our profile. I guess there’s one in particular you should see. You’re not going to like it, though.”

Wendy and Bill exchanged a glance as Greg shuffled through the files and pulled one out to slap on Wendy’s desk. “Holden Ford, Michigan.”

“That’s him,” Bill said with certainty. The mug shot staring up at them was younger, thinner, more frightened, but definitely him.

“He was in and out of institutions since childhood. He started off lighting fires,” said Greg. “He was sentenced as an adult when he was seventeen. He was only a few months away from aging out when he killed the director of the boy’s home he was living in. He killed him and, uh…”

“What?” Bill prompted.

Greg glanced at Wendy. 

“Just pretend I’m a man, Greg,” Wendy sighed.

That didn’t help, apparently. “He cut off the man’s… uh…” 

“He castrated him,” Wendy supplied.

Greg flinched. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well that fits,” said Bill. “It all fits. This is our guy. Why wouldn’t I like it?”

“Because he died in prison.”

“When?”

“About eight years ago.” Greg flipped through the file to a report, and a copy of a death certificate. “He was killed by another inmate during a fight.”

“Is there an autopsy report?” asked Wendy.

“Not that I could find.”

“Somebody took him out,” Bill said, frowning. 

“Oh!” Greg looked like a lightbulb had come on. “Yes, that… that makes much more sense.”

“If someone removed him,” Wendy mused, “then it was either a spy in the system…”

“Or someone on our side.” Bill looked out at the main room, their board of murders and clues. “Some domestic agent has been running around killing people for eight years and gone completely undetected.”

“Until us,” said Wendy.

Bill sucked down the last of his cigarette. “That’s how they knew the Senator wasn’t a Soviet hit.”

“Because they knew about our work,” Wendy said, looking alarmed. “And if they know everything, he might know everything.”

“Sorry, who’s they?” Greg wrung his hands. 

“Nothing we say or do leaves the three of us from now on,” said Bill. “Let’s keep everything internal.”

“Uh, okay,” Greg said, though he sounded conflicted.

There was a pause.

“Greg,” Wendy said gently. “I think we’re behind on transcribing our last few prisoner interviews. Do you think you can get on that?”

—

Bill’s suitcase was released back to him, and he really had no choice but to take it home. 

He unpacked it in his bedroom. Nancy was taking Brian to his music therapy tonight, so he had a few hours to figure out how to hide it all from her.

But as soon as he saw the clothes, he knew Nancy would love to see him in them. They were luxurious to touch, extremely high quality. When he held the suit jacket, he recognized it as the one Wendy had picked out for him, and his hands trembled. The shirts were soft and virginal, untainted white. 

Even the undershirts were soft and tactile, expensive. And there were silk boxer shorts, _for the love of god_. 

Feeling possessed, he got out of his tired, cheap old clothes, and slipped on the silk boxers. Then the trousers, which fit so well he was taken aback. He didn’t even know trousers _could_ fit so well. _No wonder people go to the tailor,_ he thought.

The shoes were some Italian brand, leather and shiny with decorative stitching. They were impossibly comfortable, and when he slipped on the jacket, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he realized the shoes gave him a little lift, made him a little taller.

The trousers made his legs look longer. And his ass— Bill Tench had never once in his entire life considered his own ass. It looked _good_. The feeling made him stand up straighter.

He turned and looked at himself head on. Even with his middle-aged beer gut, he felt fit and powerful. Strong. 

Nancy kept an old photograph of him on her night stand. He was young, wearing his dress uniform, before he shipped off to Korea. He was strong and manly and hopeful, then. 

Sometimes when Bill looked at that photo, he didn’t know who that boy was.

In this suit, though, he looked like the man that boy wanted to be.

_Okay, don’t pop a boner over yourself, you fucking deviant. You’re supposed to be looking for clues._

His hand reached for the tie in the suitcase, but he stopped himself.

There were other clothes— some golf shirts from a brand Bill recognized, but would never have considered buying. The most expensive golf gloves and shoes he’d ever seen. 

And the book. That was all.

Sighing, Bill took the book to the kitchen. He sat with a bottle of beer. He was reluctant to change out of the suit, though he knew he should. There was no way he could explain it to Nancy. But he had hours— and in any case, she would be confused and angry enough when he said she and Brian had to move into a safe house in the morning.

Bill wasn’t expecting to get so wrapped up in that stupid book. He was at the part where Holden explains how his brother Allie died. Maybe he heard the soft click of the door opening, and ignored it— which, frankly, would that be worse than _not_ hearing it? 

“You dressed up for me,” a very soft voice said.

Bill’s head shot up. Holden fucking Ford was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, with his stupid good boy haircut, a short-sleeved baby blue button down shirt tucked into his dumb trousers. He looked like he had stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Holden’s smile faded. “Please don’t run,” he said.

Bill dashed out of his chair and ran towards the bedroom.

Holden sighed heavily. “I asked nicely,” he sulked.

Bill had very fucking stupidly left his pistol with his clothes in the bedroom. He almost had it when Holden barrelled into the room and tackled him over.

“I don’t want to hurt you!” Holden cried as they scrapped. Bill had no such compunctions, and punched the little psycho square in the face.

The boy groaned and fell back, but when Bill went for his gun, the kid was still able to somersault in front of him and grab it first.

“There,” he smiled, and licked blood off his split lip. “Can we talk now?”

Bill swept his arm, knocking the gun out of his face, but not, regrettably, out of Holden’s hand. He punched Holden in the gut, and ran for his office.

“Come on,” Holden groaned. “Why are you being like this?”

Before Bill could open his office drawer where another gun was hidden, Holden was on his back, arm tight against his throat. 

Bill had been conflicted about screaming— he couldn’t handle it if a Good Samaritan neighbour got killed because of him, but if the police were called, maybe the sirens would scare Holden away.

So he started screaming. “Help! Someone help!”

“Please stop shouting,” Holden whined, digging his arm harder into Bill’s throat. 

Bill tried to shake him off, and they landed with a hard thump. Holden was smaller than Bill, but younger, and fuelled with a madness Bill didn’t think they’d ever understand, no matter how many killers they interviewed.

They scrapped. Bill got in a few more punches, but when he tried to get away again, Holden caught his arms behind his back and gripped his head tightly.

Bill realized that if Holden knew what he was doing, the kid could easily snap his neck. He screamed and screamed.

“Bill, please stop shouting!” Holden cried into his ear. “I don’t want to hurt you!” 

“Then what the fuck do you want?” Bill shouted.

“I just wanted to see if you would like to have some dinner with me,” Holden said. He sounded a little embarrassed.

Bill’s heart almost beat out of his chest.

—

So here they were. Bill stood by the table, trying not to tremble, staring at the multiple murderer smiling brightly at him.

Holden sat at the end of the table, Bill’s two pistols in front of him, looking like a schoolboy who just received a valentine from his crush. He didn’t even seem to notice his split lip, or the bruise starting to form over one eye. He didn’t seem at all upset that Bill gave him those wounds.

“I, um… I don’t have much food,” Bill said weakly. 

He tried to keep his head and analyze the situation. The phone was on the other side of Holden, and knowing the little bastard, the line might have already been cut. There was a third gun taped underneath the sink. Nancy and Brian were expected home in about an hour. Nobody else would expect to hear from him until tomorrow. He was wearing a formal suit to sit at home and read _Catcher in the Fucking Rye_ , and Italian leather shoes that probably cost more than his goddamn house.

“That’s okay,” Holden said. “I’m happy to eat anything. As long as it’s with you, Bill.”

Bill tried not to grit his teeth too hard as he opened the fridge. He took out a bright orange Tupperware tub. “Spaghetti and meatballs?”

“Yum,” said Holden.

“You want a beer?”

“This is going to sound weird,” said Holden, starting off strong. “But I’d love a glass of milk, if you have any.”

Of course. Bill tried to keep his face neutral as he poured a glass of milk and set it in front of Holden.

“Thank you,” Holden said, staring at Bill unblinkingly. 

“I can heat it up in the oven, but microwave’s faster,” said Bill.

“Microwave’s fine. You should get another beer for yourself, too. I think this one’s warm.”

Bill did, and went to heat up the spaghetti. “You want a cigarette?” 

“I don’t smoke when I eat,” said Holden.

“We could… go outside,” Bill offered, hopefully.

“I don’t… smoke when I don’t eat, either,” Holden said, looking bashful. “You feel free, though.”

Bill jabbed a time into the microwave, and retrieved his cigarettes from the cutlery drawer. Lighting up didn’t help.

“You have a lovely home,” Holden said.

“Thank… you,” Bill bit out. He stared at the open cutlery drawer, very aware of the gun taped under the sink just to his right.

“Would you like me to set the table?” Holden asked.

“No, you just sit. You’re my guest,” Bill said. He carefully reached towards the sink.

“No, Bill,” Holden sighed. “Don’t bother. Obviously I know where that gun is hidden. Did you really think I’ve never been in your house before?”

Bill tried to stop his fingers from shaking, and pretended he hadn’t been going for the sink to begin with. He put his hands in the cutlery drawer.

“It’s not loaded anyway, is it? Neither is this one from your office.” Bill heard clicking, like Holden was firing an unloaded gun at him. “What’s the point?” A clunk as he set the gun down. “You’re naive in some ways, Bill. That’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”

As the microwave whirred away, Bill got out forks from the cutlery drawer. He gingerly slid a serrated steak knife into his waistband.

“Be careful, Bill,” Holden said. “You wouldn’t want that to slip.”

_How did the little—_ Bill bit off a grunt. The microwave beeped, and he took the steaming Tupperware, plates and cutlery to the table.

Holden beamed at him adoringly as he set out the plates. Bill stared at him. Holden’s eyes flicked down to Bill’s waistband, and he raised his eyebrows the tiniest bit.

Bill sighed, and took the knife out of his waistband. He set it on the table, on his right, far away from Holden. Holden smiled at him, and allowed it.

“You look really good in those clothes,” Holden said as Bill sat.

“Thank you.” Bill’s face was set to a permanent frown.

“Should I dish it out?” asked Holden.

“Whatever you want,” said Bill.

This seemed to please Holden, and he picked up the Tupperware and gave them both generous helpings. “Did you like the book?” 

Bill shrugged. “I just started it. I don’t really get it.”

Holden looked at him with pleasant surprise. “I don’t get it, either,” he said. “When people meet me, they always say, _you must like that book,_ just because of my name.”

“Why did you give it to me?”

Holden furrowed his brow. “I wanted to get your insight. You’re very smart, and I admire that. Are you enjoying the _beautiful writing_? People always say it has beautiful writing. But I don’t understand it. The other Holden has so many _feelings_.”

“I don’t know,” said Bill. “It’s just a stupid book.” He puffed away at his cigarette unhappily and didn’t touch his food.

Holden was eating primly. Bill’s literary analysis seemed to satisfy him. “This is very good spaghetti. Did you make this?”

“No,” Bill spat.

“Your wife? She’s a keeper.”

“I know,” said Bill. He ashed his cigarette and poked his fork at the spaghetti.

“I like her curly hair,” Holden said. Bill was suddenly very cold. “Brian is cute, too. I think it’s really neat that you adopted. You shouldn’t expect him to be grateful or anything, though. It doesn’t work like that.”

“What the hell do you want?’’

Holden furrowed his brow. “I told you. I just wanted to have a nice dinner with you.”

“So you break into my house and assault me for it?”

“I didn’t break into your house this time,” Holden pouted. “I had a key made.” He went back to eating. “I would have telephoned you and invited you to a nice restaurant if I thought you’d actually say yes.” 

“Bullshit.”

“No,” Holden looked offended. “I’m telling the truth. I would have brought you flowers and everything. You deserve it.”

_This kid is going to carve my heart out,_ Bill thought. Terror translated into a glare, and Holden started to look shamefaced.

Holden sighed and laid down his fork, placed his hands on the table. A kid coming clean.

“I need help,” he said.

“Help,” Bill repeated.

“Yes. I…” Holden’s eyes were big and watery, his brows furrowed. “I want to stop. I’ve been doing this for so long. I don’t like this life. But if I stop, they’ll kill me. I need your help to get out.” An honest to god tear was running down one cheek.

For a moment, Bill couldn’t breathe. 

“You are so full of shit,” he said.

Holden looked startled. He wiped away the tear. “I’m not—”

“You don’t want my _help_ ,” Bill sneered. “You don’t want to _stop_.”

“Well… no,” Holden looked sheepish. “But I could be persuaded to stop. I liked that you believed me for a second. Just a little. You did.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And I like that you figured me out.” Holden grinned. His eyes flicked over Bill and he copied his body language, crossing his arms and slumping slightly, playfully copying his glare. 

“And do I have you figured out, Holden _Ford_?” 

Holden looked at him like he was a baby taking his first word. “Look at you. You’re so smart. What else do you know?”

“I know you were born in New York, and moved around a lot before your wound up in boys homes.”

Holden looked pleased. “What else?”

“I know you started fires.”

“What else?”

_If he’s going to kill me, I might as well try to get some information._ “I know you killed one of your caretakers. Why did you castrate him? What did he do to you?”

Holden blinked at him slowly. His mouth curved like he was trying to remember how to smile. “There’s that naivety. Brian’s lucky to have you for a dad.”

_Don’t fucking talk about Brian you asshole._ “Why do you clean their faces after?”

Holden looked thoughtful. “I suppose I just like things clean,” he said. He dug into his spaghetti again. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to do that for your friend in New York, but I didn’t get the time.”

Bill closed his eyes. “Who smuggled you out of prison?”

“I didn’t have enough time to strangle him, either. It was only my second time strangling someone. I did that for you, because of the tie. But then I had to leave it. Did you see it?”

Bill felt himself turn red with fury. “Who smuggled you out of prison?” 

Holden shrugged.

“You don’t know?” Bill scoffed. “Who do you work for?”

Holden blinked again, doe eyes large and seductive. “If you go far enough, I think you’ll find we work for the same people.”

Bill had a literal knee jerk reaction to that. “Bullsh—” he bit off, because he knew Holden was absolutely right. Shit, shit, shit.

“Do your people have a mole in the FBI?” he tried.

Holden shrugged again. “People have moles everywhere.” 

“What are your people called?” 

“My supervisor just calls them the organization,” Holden said. He had finished eating and was primly wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Your supervisor?”

“I’m not telling you who my supervisor is,” Holden said, grinning. He took a long drink off his glass of milk, eyes closed. “Mmm,” he said, licking white off his lips. He opened his eyes slowly again, fixed right on Bill. 

Bill swallowed. “Does the organization want to kill me?”

“I really hope not,” Holden said. “They’re just watching you right now.”

“Why me?”

Holden smiled slowly, and this one seemed more genuine, involuntary. “Because you saw me. That’s the first thing I noticed about you, too. You see me.”

Holden reached forward and put his hand on Bill’s. It took all Bill’s self-control not to rip his hand away.

“I was being honest before, Bill. A little, anyway. I’ve been doing this a long, long time. Nobody ever knows it’s me. I do it and I disappear. But you saw me. You see me. I don’t want to disappear. You think about me a lot, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Bill admitted.

“I think about you, too. I mean, I masturbate to you a lot.”

Bill sighed. “Holden…”

Holden looked delighted. “Say my name again.”

Bill grabbed the steak knife, but Holden slammed his hand down and wrested the steak knife from him. He had Bill up against the fridge before Bill even knew what was going on, the knife poised right over the softest part of his chest.

“I’m disappointed, Bill,” Holden pouted. “I thought we were having a really nice date.”

Bill clenched his teeth.

“You can make it up to me,” Holden said brightly. He kissed Bill.

Bill tried to shove him off. Holden dug the knife slightly in, the tip threatening to break skin.

“It’ll hurt more if I go slowly,” Holden said. 

“Please, Holden,” Bill tried. “I have a son.”

Holden looked confused. “I don’t want your son,” he said. 

“No, Holden… I have a son to provide for. Don’t do this.”

Holden sighed. “I told you before, Bill, I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you. Just let me kiss you, please?”

Bill screwed his eyes shut. Holden kissed him again, gently, timid tongue probing at his lips.

Holden sounded thrilled when Bill opened his mouth and let him in, even though he wasn’t returning the kiss. 

Bill shifted uncomfortably as his cock started to harden. His body didn’t know the context of what was happening, and _of course_ he was attracted to men sometimes, and _of course_ Holden was one of them. What a stupid fucking joke.

Holden hummed happily as he pulled away, and started tugging Bill’s jacket off, one hand still firmly on the knife at Bill’s chest.

“Holden, I’m married,” Bill said weakly. 

“I have a knife to your chest, Bill,” Holden replied, sounding to all the world like they were discussing paperwork. His hand wandered appreciatively all over Bill’s body. “It’s not infidelity if it’s rape.” 

He felt Bill’s hard cock, and sounded pleased. He stroked it gently, and gazed at Bill lovingly.

“Bill, would you please open your pants for me?”

Bill glared at him.

“It’ll feel good, I promise,” Holden sulked. “I want to make you feel good, to pay you back for that lovely dinner.”

Bill opened his pants. His cock jutted out foolishly. 

“Thank you,” Holden said. The knife was still poised at Bill’s chest. “Put your hands on your head,” he said.

Bill did so, arms trembling.

Holden sank to his knees, eyes wide and delighted, a kid in a candy store. He gently dragged the knife down with him. Bill gasped as the knife came near his cock, and Holden chuckled lightly.

“I’m not going to cut it off,” he said brightly. “I like it too much.” He held the knife to Bill’s thigh. “Your femoral artery is right here. I could knick it without you even feeling it. You’d bleed to death in minutes. That would be a real shame with those silk underpants. So stay put, okay?”

Bill nodded, throat dry.

“Could you please say it out loud, Bill?”

“Yes, Holden,” Bill gasped.

Holden beamed. “Thank you, Bill.” Then he took Bill’s cock in his mouth entirely.

Bill gasped and screwed his eyes shut. He tried not to groan too loud. Nancy hadn’t done this for him in almost a year, and never— never like _this_. Holden was eager and committed, utilizing tongue and lips and his free hand. 

Bill realized he was crying. 

Holden gasped, and the delightful warmth left Bill’s cock.

“Look at me,” Holden said, and Bill reluctantly opened his eyes. Holden was gazing up at him reverently, licking at his cock. “I want you to watch me. I want you to see me. Okay?” 

Bill nodded. “Yes, Holden,” he remembered to say. 

Holden hummed happily and went back to sucking, bobbing his head up and down and taking Bill’s not unimpressive length and girth all the way down his throat. 

He kept going until Bill groaned miserably. Then he pulled off again with a wet pop, and grinned up at Bill, lips puffy and red.

“You want to kill me, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, Holden, I do.”

Holden moaned, and bit his lip. “Do you want to put your hands on my throat? Do you want to strangle me?”

“Yes, Holden. I do.”

The knife pressed into his thigh, and Bill tensed. “Well, you can’t,” Holden said. “But if you like, you can put your hands on my head. Pull my hair. Fuck my face. Really go to town. How does that sound?” He lapped at the head of Bill’s cock, mouth open obscenely, inviting. 

Bill grit his teeth. “That sounds okay, Holden.” So he did it.

He put large hands on that stupid good boy haircut, pulled Holden’s hair tight and fucked the boy’s face. Mindful of the knife against his thigh, he pushed Holden over his cock rough and fast. 

Holden sounded happy, slurping and gagging, sucking hard. His free hand gripped Bill’s hip tightly. 

“Oh, fuck, Holden,” Bill groaned, the threat of the knife the only thing keeping his knees from buckling.

Just as he was about to come, Holden batted his arms away and pulled back. He milked Bill’s cock with his free hand, eyed closed and a huge grin on his face as Bill spurted all over him. 

Bill was left panting, confused, and still terrified after the best orgasm of at least the last twenty years, and the disgustingly beautiful picture Holden made with Bill’s come all over his face. 

Holden hummed happily. He licked his lips like he was licking off that milk from earlier. When he finally opened his eyes, they were dreamy and far away. He leaned forward and licked all the stray drops off Bill’s slowly softening cock.

When he was satisfied, he pulled the knife back, and stood up. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

Bill shook his head.

“You can put yourself away, if you want.”

Bill did so.

Holden smiled at him, rocking back and forth on his heels, looking like a goddamn Hardy Boy if not for the money shot all over his face. “Will you clean my face for me, Bill?”

Bill was quiet for a moment, and starting to feel sad. He’d just received the best blow job of his life from a sequence killer/traitorous assassin, while his wife was at their child’s therapy session. This was his lowest point, but it was the smug little psychopath asking to have his face cleaned that somehow got him. 

“Sure, Holden,” he said. He warily stepped towards the sink and got a dishcloth.

Holden was still holding the steak knife. He’d stabbed dozens of people— at least— to death. Bill knew better than to try to get his one loaded gun from the table with Holden watching. 

Bill wet the dishcloth in the sink. 

Holden smiled at him as Bill approached, and closed his eyes. He sighed when Bill gripped his chin with one hand, and wiped his face clean. He looked very young. 

“There,” said Bill, when Holden’s face was clean. “I see you.”

Holden’s eyes were bright, and his smile was genuine. “Thank you,” he said.

Keys clinked in the doorway. Bill’s heart leapt into his throat.

“I’m going to take these.” Holden tossed the knife into the Tupperware container, and quickly shoved both pistols into his waistband. “And this.” He retrieved Bill’s suit jacket from the floor and put it on. It was too big on him, but it concealed the pistols. Holden made a show of hugging the jacket tight. “I’m going to sleep with this and masturbate tonight,” he said matter of factly.

Bill almost choked. The front door opened, and he heard Nancy announce herself.

Holden went out to the doorway, and Bill followed. He stopped short when Nancy and Holden shook hands.

“Hello!” said Holden. “I’m Holden. I’m a colleague of Bill’s. He was just helping me with some case work.”

“Oh,” said Nancy. “That’s nice.”

Holden crouched by Brian, who was standing shyly at Nancy’s side. “You must be Brian,” Holden said. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” Brian said, very, very softly, and of all the horrible things Bill had heard this night, that was the worst.

Nancy lit right up, hand on her chest, and turned to Bill happily. She saw his stone-faced scowl. She noticed.

“Why don’t you stay for dinner, Holden?” she asked.

“Oh, no, thank you very much,” Holden said. “I was starving earlier; Bill fed me some of your delicious leftovers. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh,” Nancy sounded disappointed. “Next time.”

“Next time,” Holden agreed. “See you later, Bill.”

Bill remained silent and scowling as Holden left.

“Well,” said Nancy. “He was nice.”

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I came to the end of a block and stepped off the goddam curb, I had this feeling that I'd never get to the other side of the street. I thought I'd just go down, down, down, and nobody'd ever see me again. Boy, did it scare me. You can't imagine. I started sweating like a bastard – my whole shirt and underwear and everything. Then I started doing something else. Every time I'd get to the end of a block I'd make believe I was talking to my brother Allie. I'd say to him, "Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Please, Allie." And then when I'd reach the other side of the street without disappearing, I'd thank him. Then it would start all over again as soon as I got to the next corner. But I kept going and all. I was sort of afraid to stop, I think – I don't remember, to tell you the truth.   
> \- JD Salinger, "The Catcher in the Rye"
> 
>  
> 
> [I'm on tumblr!](http://vivarocksteady.tumblr.com/)


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